


Goodnight, Moon

by TugboatExpress



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: donald duck is a good dad, the boys are little little kids in this lmao like toddlers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TugboatExpress/pseuds/TugboatExpress
Summary: Huey, Dewey, and Louie are growing up without a mom - but they do have Donald. Once the boys start walking and talking and becoming curious about the world, Donald is faced with some hard and heartbreaking conversations.





	Goodnight, Moon

Della leaves. She leaves to give the boys the stars. Della doesn’t come back. The boys don’t have the stars - they don’t even have a mother.

The night Huey, Dewey, and Louie are hatched is bright and full of stars. It’s an eventful hour.

Huey is the first, poking his little beak out carefully, and emerging into the world with big, curious eyes. Donald swaddles him and holds him to his chest, as Dewey comes busting into the world, crying for attention until Donald swaddles him, too. Louie makes little effort to break free of his egg, and needs some help. It’s a stressful 45 minutes.

Donald checks and double checks and triple checks and checks again that all is well with the boys. When he’s satisfied that they’re all alright, he lays them down and lets them sleep. They’re huddled together, and Donald stares at them in awe, smile wide and eyes wet. Moonlight shines through the window. 

***

Time flies with three precious little ducklings in one houseboat. Huey is the first to be able to sit up unsupported. Months later, Dewey is the first to walk on his own. Later still, Louie is the first to talk.

It’s just before their third birthday. They’re all starting to babble, just gibberish - although they DO seem to understand each other. Donald doesn’t know if it’s a baby thing, or a triplet thing, or both. He wonders if he and Della used to have this secret, nonsensical language - he doesn’t want to think about that. The point is, the boys were very clearly on the brink of talking, and Donald was excited.

It happens on a mundane Tuesday afternoon. They’re all in the baby-gated living room when Louie toddles up to Donald, makes grabby-hands, and happily proclaims: “Dada!”

Donald’s heart simultaneously swells and breaks.

***

A few weeks pass, and, thanks to Louie’s relentless stream of chatter, the others are talking too. Still in a babyish, simple, and fragmented way, but Donald’s many parenting books all say that they’re progressing fine. (Really, they’re all talking earlier than most toddlers would, but Donald’s a worrier.)

They’re a loud bunch. When they’re out shopping, all three boys piled into the cart, Huey will point at things he recognizes as they pass.

“Apple!” He shouts, pointing, and Louie laughs.

“Look! ’Nanas!” he babbles happily. 

Dewey points at something on the ground and gasps. 

“Puppy!” Shouts Huey. “Dada! Lou! Look, a puppy!”

The boys fawn over the puppy for a minute, and then they push onwards. 

“Cookies,” Huey recites, “Cheeros,” He mis-pronounces. 

A mother passes their cart, pushing a very young infant along. Donald smiles, remembering when the boys were that age.

“Baby!!!” Huey shouts, as if on cue. “Dew see? Look, baby!”

He points at the mother. “Dada!” He proclaims.

Donald flinches. He crouches so he can be eye-level with the little ones.

“No, Huey - Mama. That’s a mama. Can you say ‘mama’?”

Huey looks back at the woman. “Mama?” he says, in a voice that’s dripping with confusion.

Donald nods, the lump in his throat rendering him unable to speak. 

The boys don’t know what a mom is.

***

Dewey is the stereotypical type of kid that’s always asking questions. Donald has a meeting at the bank a few days after the shopping incident, and he’s forced to bring the boys along.

“Where going?” Dewey babbles from his carseat.

Donald looks in the rear-view mirror. “To the bank!” he says.

“To bank,” Louie repeats.

“Bank,” Huey confirms.

“Why?” Dewey demands.

“I have a super special very important meeting,” Donald replies.

“Why?” Dewey repeats.

“I…because the people at the bank want me to?”

“Why?”

Donald sighs. Dewey does this a lot. He won’t stop asking and asking and asking. Sometimes it’s easier to say:

“Just because.” Donald glances to the back seat. Dewey seems contented with this answer.

“Ok!” he says.

“Ok!” repeats Louie, and Huey laughs.

At the bank, the meeting goes about as well as they always do. Donald barely keeps a hold of his temper, for the boys’ sake.

“Great job helping your uncle Donald, boys! Bye-bye!” the banker says cheerily as they leave.

“Bye-bye!” the boys chorus in unison.

Donald’s strapping the boys into their carseats when Dewey asks, “What’s Unca?”

Donald blinks in confusion. “Huh?”

“What she said ‘Uncle’ for?” Louie translates.

Donald stares at him for a moment, then takes a deep breath and goes back to buckling them up.

“Because I’m your uncle,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You Dada,” Huey points out, confused.

It’s a touchy subject, and one much too hard for kids this young to understand. Donald tries his best:

“You can call me Dada. But really I’m your uncle,”

“Unca?” says Huey.

“Uncle…” says Louie.

“Why?” says Dewey. “Why you Unca?”

Donalds collects himself. “…Most people have Mamas, or Dadas. But some people don’t. Instead they have Uncles, just like you. Or Aunties, or Grammies, or Grampies.”

Immediately, Dewey fires back with his usual “Why?”

“Because…Well, because…you just do. You have an Uncle instead of a Mama.”

“Why?” Dewey asks in a little voice. “Why we not have Mama?”

The car swerves, and Donald rights it with a jolt. He looks back at Dewey. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. He clears his throat. 

“Just because.”

They’re too young to understand.

***

It’s a warm, serene night in Duckburg. Gentle waves rock the houseboat, and the full moon glimmers down on the water. 

The boys were tucked in about half an hour ago, and Donald’s about to pour himself a nice, relaxing cup of tea, when he hears a dull thud and two angry little voices hissing, “Dewey!”

He sighs and puts his mug down, but he’s smiling. He opens the boys’ door and - shockingly - finds them wide awake. 

Louie just blinks at him, unphased; Dewey dives backwards and hides under the covers; Huey gasps and blurts out an apology. 

“Boys,” Donald says, trying to sound stern (but really failing), “why are you up? It’s bedtime.”

“Not tired!” Dewey yells in a sing-song voice, muffled by the covers.

Huey and Louie nod in agreement.

“Can we have bedtime story?” Louie asks, sweetly.

“Yeah!” Dewey exclaims, throwing the blankets off of himself.

It really is getting late, and the boys really should be asleep, but Donald just can’t say no to them. He really can’t.

And so, Donald heads out to the back of the houseboat, story in hand and three little ducklings in line behind him. They make themselves comfy on their little old porch swing, which is rocking ever so gently from the waves below.

Tonight, the boys picked “Goodnight Moon,” a favourite of theirs. They like to say ‘goodbye’ to everything in the book. It’s sickeningly sweet.

Donald finishes the book with a dramatic “the end,” and then they sit there in silence for a moment, listening to the crashing of the waves and looking at the reflection of the moon. It’s very peaceful. Or it would be, if looking at the night sky didn’t make Donald’s heart hurt.

Donald knows she’s up there. She doesn’t know if she’s alive or - well, he knows she’s up there, and that’s all that matters. He also knows that it should be Della reading the boys bedtime stories, and taking them on mundane errand-runs, and hearing their first words. But it’s not. It’s just him. And he hopes it’s enough.

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore, so he shakes his head, stands up, and tells the boys it’s time for bed. 

They yawn and stretch and crawl groggily off of the swing. 

“Goodnight, swing” Louie says, giving it a little pat. Huey and Dewey laugh tired little laughs, and also wish the swing goodnight. Donald smiles.

“Goodnight, house,” Dewey sighs.

“Goodnight, ocean,” Huey mumbles.

They’re heading back inside, still wishing objects goodnight, when Louie pauses in the door.

“Goodnight, moon,” he says, with a tiny wave skyward. And Donald swears he feels his heart break.

“Goodnight, moon!” Huey and Dewey chorus, before they all head inside.

The triplets walk sleepily back to their shared little room, Huey pulling both of his brothers along by the hands. They won’t have a mom to tuck them into bed when they get there.

Donald looks over his shoulder, out at the great big sky. 

“Goodnight, moon.” he whispers.

 

***

A thousand miles away, up amoung the stars, on the surface of the great big moon, sits a crashed rocket.

Its sole inhabitant - a mother; a sister; a niece; a lover; a friend. All alone. She’s scared, and tired, and desperate, and hopeless, and a million other things at once.

She looks out the window, down upon Earth. She thinks of everyone she lost - everyone SHE left behind.

She glances at the little clock on the dashboard: quarter after nine. Everyone she’s ever known will probably be getting ready for bed, she thinks. She misses the city. She misses the mansion.

Most of all, she misses her family.

She sighs.

“Goodnight, down there,” whispers Della.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first DT fic and honestly I'm sorry for making it this sad dfhdfhgdgf  
> I just love writing little kid characters and I wanted to write something Della-related after I saw the Shadow War, so here ya go!
> 
> As always, comments/questions/anything like that are great appreciated! :) thanks for reading!


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